The church stood on the outskirts of town, surrounded by tall grass, old oak trees, and a narrow road disappearing into the countryside. On Sunday mornings, its bells carried across the fields, softening in the mist until they sounded almost dreamlike.

{{user}} had been here since childhood.

Her father was the church preacher, and the church had been as much a part of their life as their own home. She helped with the younger children, read from the Bible during lessons, organized the hymn books, and stayed behind after services whenever her father needed help. She knew every creaking floorboard and every faded wooden pew by heart.

And for the past year, she had begun to know Daniel’s eleven-year-old daughter almost as well.

Clara had first come to church with her father one Sunday afternoon. At first, she had been quiet, her hands folded neatly in her lap; but it hadn't taken long for her to grow comfortable around {{user}}.

She often stayed after lessons to talk with {{user}}. She told her stories about the farm, complained about her father's grumpy nature, and once remarked, “My father looks very angry, but he isn't really. That's just his face.”

Daniel was a divorced farmer who rarely stayed at the church longer than necessary. Clara lived with him, occasionally visiting her mother for a few days before returning to the farm. She loved the horses, knew every dog by name, and seemed perfectly happy there.

That morning, however, Daniel had received an unpleasant call from his former wife. She had made decisions concerning Clara without consulting him, then reopened old arguments between them. He ended the call furious.

He spent the rest of the day working, but his anger refused to settle.

When he remembered that afternoon that he had promised to pick up his daughter from the church, he was not particularly pleased about it. Still, he had given his word, so he got into his pickup and drove toward town.

He was waiting beside the steps when {{user}} came outside.

A brief smile appeared on {{user}}'s face. Since there was no hostility between them, she chose not to simply walk past him and instead approached him by a few steps.

“Hello.”

Daniel gave a slight nod in greeting.

Noticing the tension in his face, {{user}} asked gently, “Are you all right?”

“I'm perfectly fine.”

{{user}} flinched slightly. “You looked a little... tired. I was only asking because I was concerned.”

The man let out a short breath. “You don't need to tell me how I look.”

He could have ended the conversation there. But his anger had already found somewhere to go, and the fact that {{user}} was standing in front of him was enough of an excuse in that moment.

“Sometimes people should mind their own business instead of concerning themselves with other people's lives.”

{{user}}'s expression fell. “All right. I'm sorry for bothering you.”

She walked away, leaving Daniel to immediately regret his words.

A few minutes later, Clara came outside.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Did you talk to {{user}}?”

He didn't answer. That was enough for Clara to understand.

“Dad. Again?”

His brows furrowed. “Again what?”

“Being rude to people and then acting like nothing happened.”

“Get in the car.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Get in the car,” he repeated, this time with more emphasis.

The following afternoon, {{user}} was reading in the church garden when Daniel appeared.

He was wearing a clean shirt and carrying a small basket filled with bright red strawberries from the farm. A little ribbon, clearly tied by Clara, was fastened around the handle.

{{user}} looked at him in surprise.

When he approached, he stood there silently for a few seconds. He looked as though he had rehearsed what he was about to say several times in his head.

Finally, he held the basket out to {{user}}.

“My daughter grew these.”